For Love of My Master
by The Narrator
Summary: So, you think you understand my master? Then you are sorely mistaken. Sokka from an unexpected point of view.


I don't write enough Sokka-fic... well, _**good**_ Sokka-fic, anyways. But I felt compelled to post this little love letter.

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_**For Love of My Master**_

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I always _do_ come back – but not just to anyone, no siree, I ain't that kinda weapon. You see, people always assume that just 'cuz my master can't fling rocks, freeze a person in their tracks (if they're conveniently wading through a puddle), give someone hotfoot just by pointing, or sneeze themselves twenty feet into the air, that he's somehow less… I dunno… less of a warrior, less of a person, less of a _matter_.

And that really rusts my tang, ya know what I mean?

I consider myself a reasonable, easy-going sort of fellow – I ain't your dao-type, with the hacking and the slashing and in-your-face-show-_offiness_, or one of those oafish, lumbering clods of clubs that lack any sense of decorum or elegance whatsoever. Nope, I'm the type who's easily overlooked until too late, and really, I don't mind – I serve my master better that way.

But enough about me – I'm here to talk about my master.

Take it from me, folks – my master's just as under-appreciated and overlooked as I am, and maybe that's why I'm so insistent on speaking up. Weapons like me have no life unless our master gives it to us, bonds to us, _uses us_, but most of all, respects and cherishes us – from the day I passed from my fifth master into the hands of my current, I haven't always been blessed with masters like that, but I've been luckier than most. But my master – now _he_ gave me spirit!

Come to think of it, even _I_ first underestimated and dismissed my master – I thought he was _far_ too young to appreciate the likes of my elegance, so when my last master passed me into the outstretched, uplifted hands of his wide-eyed (snot-nosed) son, I let off a shriek of protest that made the kid start and almost drop me.

I shoulda realized right then and there that if he could sense my distress at having met me for the first time as my master, that I was in store for great things at his hands – but hey, even I'm not perfect. No, all I did was grumble and sulk about almost having to take a snow bath on the first day of my new life. I even gave the kid more trouble than I ought to have, as he was learning to use me.

All the same though… looking back, I suppose I shouldn't have been so iron-headed. My master's just a stubborn (more stubborn!) than me, thank goodness, and his pride had all the makings of the finest tempered steel, even back then. He knew when to bend, when to adjust, when to stand hard and fast – he didn't break me to his will or give up on me. He even began speaking to me, calling me his "runaway friend" (okay, so I was guilty of slipping and sliding down icy slopes into inconvenient crevices more than necessary, but hey… I learned… eventually).

No one had ever called me "friend," and when you think about it – a warrior's truest friend is the weapon in his hands, for he entrusts his life to it.

And don't think that just 'cuz he got all cuddly with me that I was any easier on him – no way! A master respects his weapons before they respect him back, but let's just say that the first day I flew back into his hand, straight and true, and heard his shouts of victory shatter the frosty quiet was one of the happiest days in my life. From then on, I was "Boomerang" - which I knew to be "friend."

As he grew older, he got other weapons, of course – no warrior of our tribe is so arrogant and above the menial tasks of hunt and survival that he will only depend on one tool alone. Spear followed by Club followed by followed by Knife followed by Stunted Blade (he hates it when I call him that, but that's what he is) joined the ranks, and we all served our master as best we could. For him, as young as he was, we weren't toys, we weren't just _things_ – we were comrades. He used us in ways I had never considered in my much longer life, and it swells my heart with pride to have helped in the development of his genius.

When his father and the others left… I began to detect as new stream welling up in his soul, something sadder, and yet more determined. He began working harder, but all the same, I could feel his anger and frustration and wounded-ness – his warrior spirit was just developing, and so far as I had seen, possessed limitless potential. But he could not see the same as I because, let's face it – humans are pretty dense, denser than clubs at times. Doubt began to cloud him, seep into his every movement like treacherous ice-water into cracks in old iron. I still flew as straight and true as I could for his sake, but even I began feeling low.

And then – the Avatar came again, and he found a Purpose. For those of you who aren't warrior-types, let me tell you that no warrior is a true warrior unless he has a Purpose – it can be as simple as shielding the person next to you from harm or as weighty as saving the world, but unless a warrior has something beyond himself for which he will commit the last full measure of strength, spirit, breath, and life to, he is a shadow, a shell, a mockery. In the Avatar, and in his sister's belief in the Avatar, my master found a Purpose that opened him up to the whole world.

My master has been tested – fire and ice have tempered him, forging new strength and sounding new depths. He has submitted body and soul to the torment of the anvil and tongs and hammer, and will do so again many, many times more. He has not given up or surrendered, just like he never gave up or surrendered those years ago on the ice-floes of home.

We weapons know and understand that our masters are made of different stuff than us – skin and sinew and bone in place of steel and wood. That doesn't necessarily mean it's weaker, I've come to realize. What I can't fathom is why humans themselves can't realize this – why they assume that strength for strength's sake is the end all and be all of existence. My master is not the strongest master, and yet, I would not serve any other master as gladly. In his hands, I am a companion and protector. In his hands, I am an innovation and an inspiration. In his hands, I am Weapon and he is Warrior.

We may become separated, we might lose each other – strength and steel can both fail, body becomes dust just as iron becomes rust. But in our Purpose, we are united, and to the End, I will serve him.

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**A/N:** I don't know where this came from exactly, but I suspect it has to do with the samurai manga I've been re-reading, Samurai Deeper Kyo in particular. In samurai pop-culture, but also historically, the idea that a samurai's weapons have their own soul and that a samurai must be in tune with his blade in order to use it properly has always fascinated me. In the Avatar-verse, much is made about the spiritual connectedness bending imparts. I just thought it was time we give some due to the non-benders who are Warriors nonetheless. () 

P.S. - On a more personal side-not, Boomerang is looking forward to another chance at a crack at Zuko's head.


End file.
